Lance is asleep beside me. So why am I awake?
The clock on the nightstand says six a.m. We've been in bed only a few hours.
It's the sun. The fucking desert sun, peeking through a chink in the curtains, sending a laser spear of light directly at my eyes. A cosmic wake-up call.
That's why I'm awake.
I lift my face, sniff.
That and the smell of coffee.
I groan and roll over.
Adele must be awake, too.
Memories of last night flood back. I raise myself on my elbows and lean toward Lance.
He looks peaceful. I doubt he'll remain that way when he wakes up. When I start questioning him.
I need to find out why Underwood attacked him so savagely. I need to find out what part I played in it, because the one thing I'm sure of is that I am at the core of Underwood's cruelty. He wanted something from me last night and when he didn't get it, he took it out on Lance.
Why would Lance allow it to happen? Why wouldn't he fight back? Or did he, and was what happened the result of his resistance?
I scoot carefully away from him, not wanting to disturb him. I start to swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
An arm encircles my waist, pulls me back. "Where are you going?"
Lance wraps his arms around me, cradles me so that his head is on my shoulder. Our bodies fit together like two halves of a whole. It feels right-like this is the way we are supposed to start each morning and this is the way we are supposed to end each night. When he presses his body against mine, his erection nudges the small of my back. An invitation.
I groan a little and try to move away. "Lance, wait. We need to talk about-"
The words die on my lips.
He's smoothing the hair away from my neck, nuzzling my earlobe, tracing his tongue along my chin line. The tremor starts in my core, heating my blood, sending sparks of arousal to every part of my body.
I'm lost. In the rhythm of Lance's heartbeat. In the feel of his lips at my neck. When he opens the vein, starts to drink, the world is reduced to tactile pleasure. His hand slips between my legs, his fingers begin their persuasive and skillful exploration, his penis throbs against my skin.
I don't want him to stop. I moan and push back against him, urging him on, until I can control it no longer.
The first waves of orgasm come quickly. I want him inside me. I push him away, feel the skin on my neck tear as we reverse positions. Blood trickles down my breasts. I don't care. I'm on top, guiding him between my legs, forcing him deep inside, opening his neck. His blood is what I want. Blood that tastes of Malibu and the sun and me and-
The host from last night.
She's there and I want to drink her in. Lance had her. I want to have her, too. She tastes like good wine and expensive perfume. Her blood rolls over my tongue and down my throat but as much as I drink, I can't rid him of her. Not completely.
Anna, stop.
Lance's voice from far away.
No.
I burrow my mouth closer to his neck, continue to drink, impervious to everything except the need to drain him of this woman's blood.
Lance grabs a handful of my hair, yanks hard, pulling my head away from his neck.
I fight it, fight him, lunge again for his neck. She's still there. Still running through his veins. I want her out.
He flings me back on the bed. His hand is at his neck. Blood runs between his fingers, down his chest, soaking sheets and blankets. His eyes are wild, questioning, afraid.
Anna. Heal me.
For an instant I stare at him, uncomprehending. The animal disappears when the human Anna grasps what she's seeing. My stomach lurches.
What have I done?
Lance. I'm sorry.
I reach for him and he hesitates only a second, searching my face, assuring himself that he recognizes the human, before bending near me, allowing me to close my lips around the jagged wound in his neck. This time, I'm not drinking, not taking in blood, but sucking gently to repair the damage. The artery mends, the skin knits closed. The angry flush of my assault fades as I watch.
But Lance is pale, weak. I drained too much blood.
What have I done?
I open a vein in my wrist with my teeth and hold it to his lips. He grabs my hand and sucks at the dripping blood eagerly. He's like a starved animal. He drinks until the color returns to his flesh.
Then he stops.
He stops.
He wipes his hand across his mouth and without hesitating, brings my hand once more to his lips to close the wound. Then he bends his head to my neck and I feel the rush of cells regenerating, of skin renewing itself.
When he's done, we both sink back on the bed. Instead of the pleasure of coupling, we're drained, exhausted and confused. I feel it in Lance as strongly as in myself.
I had questions for Lance. I imagine now he'll have questions for me. But nothing he asks can be as disturbing as the questions I have for myself.
